


Emptiness

by scalpelslut



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, M/M, hurt and only a little comfort, take two severely mentally ill men and you get this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 04:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5652307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scalpelslut/pseuds/scalpelslut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Human or demon? Abomination or amalgam of souls? The tendrils of taint gripping at Anders' entire body begs him to fall to corruption, to succumb to his wants rather than his true goals. It's an ache he cannot ignore, even with the help of Justice. It's never as simple as he wishes it were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emptiness

The chantry offers him no safety, no absolution, no healing, let alone the sanctity the choir boy preaches. 

The sight of the lay sisters and brothers makes him want to peel his skin away, to rip shreds of his fingers off to pick and pick and pick himself clean until he’s nothing, nothing that they can hurt or touch. Justice stops him each time he almost falls into an episode. If anything is a perk of the symbiosis it’s that--his picking has stopped almost altogether. 

He is not picked clean like he used to be, raw and red and open, but the pain has not changed; only the urges has changed. Here, in the room he’s reserved himself for episodes and issues and worries and things he does not, will not, ever ever ever show him, beautiful him, he rests. The dog paws against the door and he grimaces somewhat--the dog is letting him know Hawke is home. Those gnarled hands shake and he presses one against his face, breathing harshly. He’ll know. He always does. There’s nothing Hawke can do when Anders feels so disgusting, unclean, taint ripping at the edges of his mind. It has to be pushed out. Has to. 

The door is locked and yet that is not reassuring for him. Hawke’s hand rests against the door and he does not knock nor open it, simply pauses there. Anders shuts his eyes and rubs his temples. 

Hawke knows, and he always does know, after all, so he turns away from the door, at least, for a moment. He bites his lip, head tilting, thinking, giving it a moment before he gives up and unlocks the door. Anders does not look at him when he comes in. The room is not a nice sight, if it ever was one, strewn papers along the floor, cobwebs from lack of cleaning, the only light a small candle he keeps lit at the desk. 

“...Don’t look at me.” He huffs out, after an extended silence that hurts more than anything even Fenris could say to him, the ‘please’ left unsaid but certainly heard. “You deserve so much better than this.” He hisses out, and in his head Justice hisses back “You would be better able to help them away from him. He distracts you. Get out while you can.”

Hawke sighs, and steps inside, careful of Anders’s work on the ground. He always is, Anders thinks, he always is, he cares about it… He stands behind him, not reaching for him, staying quiet if only for a moment longer. 

“You need sunlight, Anders.” He says, coming closer but not touching him, allowing Anders to acclimate. The blond rights himself somewhat, but does not look yet. 

“It’s not something… that will just go away with warmth, or… anything like it.” He says, hands stiffening at his sides. “...I’m an abomination, and nothing can change that. Not even you.” He sneers at his feet. 

“Nothing can change you, and I know that.” Hawke responds, shaking his head. “I say you need sunlight because you have been in here for too long.

“...I’m not abandoning you, anyhow. I would have done that a much longer time ago if I’d meant to.” He crosses his arms over his chest.  
The knots in his stomach do turns and twists as he stares at the wall in a sort of anguish; the apprehension spreads out from there and pushes forth into his shaking hands. Those words mean nothing, even if Hawke means them. The play is nearly over. The denouement is here. There can be no undoing, and while he knows that, he does, it whispers in his brain that this was all a mistake. 

Duplicity hurts. 

Knowing he is hiding so much from his dearest hurts.

Knowing he’s hurting so many hurts.

Knowing so many more will be hurt much worse if he does not allow these events to pass hurts worse.

Knowing he will hurt Hawke so dearly burns. 

Hawke furrows his brow and steps closer, only by a step, just one foot, and Anders turns to him. He has not slept in a long time, and it shows. 

Hawke will find out. Hawke will learn of his misdeed, that voice whispers again and again.

Justice instead staunchly whispers his usual spiel--”the distraction Hawke provides will only make you weak.” 

As if he doesn’t know.

Anders is the one to come forward, this time, his hands shaking so slightly you would not notice unless you were searching for it. He feels so far away. Like an ocean away. 

“All my life, I’ve been running, you know? Always,” he admits, finally.

“Comes with the apostate territory.” 

“Not like that. Not always like that. From everything. From how I feel...felt… about Karl. From where I am, from Darktown, from my work, from… my work.” He explains, rubbing his face, heaving a harsh breath of air. “It’s hard to ignore the call to run. It’s almost constant. But I… There is so much I need to see through.”

“Then stay. It isn’t as if I’m kicking you out, and frankly I like having you here.” Anders stifles a laugh, expression unchanging.

“I don’t know what to do. I’ve never known what to do. Justice doesn’t know, much as he pretends he does. And you certainly don’t know. I wish I could make it all up as I go along. It’d all be so much easier to handle.” He laments, closing the distance between the raven-haired man and himself. “...I’m sorry, Hawke. I’m so sorry.”

“You haven’t done a thing to apologize for. Besides the dirty room.” He teases, though it evokes no response from the blond, whose head lay on Hawke’s shoulder. Anders’ hands grasp the warm fabric of Hawke’s overcoat, clenching, holding him as close as he can. 

A feeble “...thank you” is all he can muster.

**Author's Note:**

> This is half-really old, half-really new, so the styles might kind of clash, I'm not sure.


End file.
